


The New Princess

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Nerdiness, Original Character(s), Slow Burn, Witty characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-07-16 16:42:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7275889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Year is 280 AC. The Silver Prince is torn between the crown and his prophecy; not to mention unmarried. While he makes some tough decisions, his father makes one for him; with questionable intentions. He wades through the muck of courtly intrigue and tries to read his new wife as he attempts to stage a coup.<br/>The Golden Knight observes the Princess who has a weird connect with him. He has an insider's view to the politics of the court and is a witness to his family's plotting for power.<br/>The Dornish Bloom arrives a little late on the scene but adds a new dimension to the Red Keep and gets embroiled in a bitter conflict with the Light of the West.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Silver Prince: The Feast

**Author's Note:**

> In my story, the tourney of Harrenhal never happens. Jaime Lannister is inducted in the Kingsguard at the age of 14 in a private ceremony six to seven months before the start of the story. The Defiance of Duskendale occcurs a bit earlier, in 274 AC. So the King is in very bad shape from the start.  
> Also, I'm not sure but I'm assuming that Baelor Hightower is married, with kids by 280 AC.  
> Do point out when I make a mistake or if you feel that someone's behaviour is going OOC.  
> I hope you enjoy.  
> Cheers!

It was the welcome feast for the new Hand the king had chosen, after the lion finally resigned. Rhaegar could smell doom in the air.

_Something feels off. The Gods only know what horror my father has in store for me today. I’m showing up after so many days, he’ll make me pay for this._

He entered the The Queen’s Ballroom with trepidation, his thoughts cloaking him like a second skin. The herald announced his entry and he saw the heads of his Father the King and his new Hand Lord Merryweather turn towards him. His Mother was there too, and it was her he truly wanted to see. Striding towards the dais, he could see new injuries marking her face and had to fight the impulse of throttling his father. He bowed low before the King.

“Your Grace”. His father only sneered in return. 

Turning to the Hand, he said “Congratulations on your appointment, My Lord. I look forward to making your acquaintance and working together for the realm.”

“Thank you Your Highness. I too wish to do the same. We will get....”

The king interrupted, his face twisted in a disgusting leer.                                                                         

“He is my man. Not yours, boy. Never forget it. If you think I will allow you to conspire with my officials, you are delusional.” His voice dripped with malice, poison and paranoia.

Rhaegar summoned all of his will, to make sure he didn’t say anything unseemly. “As you wish Your Grace.”

He bowed again and joined his brother and mother the Queen, ruffling his brother’s hair affectionately. Viserys regaled him with a few stories of his septa and dragons, before a maid took him to sleep. The feast had started late. The _King’s Justice_ had run longer than expected.

_I should thank the Seven I didn’t have to witness it._

His Mother greeted him far more warmly than his Father.

“I thought you were never coming again my dear. It unnerved me. You did not even reply to my letters. Never do it again Son. Dragonstone was not so far that you couldn’t have visited me.”                    

There was reproach in her words, but her love sweetened everything. It was her face which made him flinch. There was pure terror in her beautiful eyes. Rhaegar wondered what his father had done while he was gone.

“I apologise Mother. I needed some time. I did not send letters because I was very busy.” He tried to look contrite but didn’t quite manage it. In front of her he was a young boy again, not the Crown Prince to a deranged King.

“4 moons?”

“I... The thing I have been working on is.... rather hard, Mother. But I never thought it would take this much time”. He paused, looking into her eyes again. He hated not being able to tell her.

“I am really sorry for leaving you and Viserys behind like that ”. And he really did mean it. He wished he could keep them safe from Father, but nothing was like to provoke the King more than shifting Vis and Mother to Dragonstone.

“Tis alright Son. I was just worried. Now that I have seen you, everything is back to normal”.

Her eyes bore into his, completely alike; and it seemed she was searching for something deep within him. She sighed, “I pray that you succeed in whatever you are working on Son.”

He nodded. I will succeed Mother, _I will not fail you._

The feast moved forward very slowly as each course went through a series of tasters and was served to the King after waiting for some time, a precaution against slow acting poisons. And it was only after the king had taken a bite that the rest of the attendees could be served. Just after the fifth course was served, the Prince decided he’d eaten enough. Taking leave of his mother, he rose up to leave the hall. But before he could stride out he heard the King call in his raspy, shrill voice.

“My dear Son, leaving the festivities so early?”                                                                                            

The insincere cloying tone made him gag. Rhaegar clenched his jaw and closed his eyes for a heartbeat before turning around, steeling himself to face his Father. His Father’s eyes glittered at another chance to insult him. 

“I came straight from a ship, Your Grace. I’m extremely tired. May I be excused from the rest of the festivities?”

“Never forget your courtesies boy” he barked, “be gone for now. But present yourself tomorrow in my solar whenever I order you to come.”

“”Yes, Your Grace. I will.” He all but ran from the hall after that, Ser Arthur following in his wake. Rhaegar glanced at Ser Oswell, who understood the message being conveyed. He murmured something to his fellow Kingsguard Ser Jaime and silently left the hall behind the two of them. No one said a word till they reached the Prince’s chamber. As Rhaegar went to the decanter and poured some wine, Ser Oswell joined them. Ser Arthur stepped up and locked the door securely before all three moved to an ante-chamber which had settees for lounging. The Prince laid out the wine cups on the table and took hold of a harp lying below the desk, strumming its strings gently but loud enough to mask the conversation between them. The precautions may have been a bit over board but their talk was treason and if the King got a whiff of it, they would be fed to wildfire which was not very agreeable to them.

Oswell had many questions and Rhaegar attempted to answer them all. He needed to be brought up-to-date with all their schemes.

His first question was the toughest. “Did you get enough support?”

Arthur smirked and gulped his wine down with undecent haste; Rhaegar spared him a look of disdain before turning back to Oswell.

“I talked to the Hightowers. Baelor is willing enough, his Lord father is another thing. The son says he is doing everything in his power to sway the man but till now nothing has taken root. From the Vale, Old Lord Arryn is biding his time and making me dangle. He hasn’t given me any clear indication of what he wants. May be a wife. Or a wife for his heir. I cannot be sure.” He paused, brooding reflectively. “ As for the Tyrells, Lord Mace pledged his sword to me but he wants betrothals as well. Most of the Reach seems willing anyway, Tarlys, Redwnyes, Oakhearts.... ”his voice trailed off and he drank the rest of the wine in his cup.

Oswell rubbed his jaw, thinking fiercely. “Betrothals? Between whom?”

“Well if Tyrell had his way he would marry me to his young heir. But since that cannot be, he wishes to marry his son to my unborn daughter. Also he would be overjoyed if I married my heir to his daughter.”

The other two spoke up at the same time. “He has a daughter?”

_“Not yet.”_

“The man is confident. You have to give him that. ”Oswell was never without a quip, even when troubled. But his smile faded fast.

Arthur prowled the room. Their seriousness began to affect him as well. He contemplated the dregs of wine clinging to the cup. All this while his hand had never released the harp, elegant fingers kept playing with the strings.

“And it took you four moons to do all this? ”

Rhaegar squirmed guiltily and Oswell looked to Arthur for confirmation of what he thought. He could feel their eyes boring into him so he burrowed further into the settee.

“You possibly cannot be serious Rhaegar”.

Oswell took a calming breath. “ I understand that the prophecy is important to you but you cannot keep this up. Decide what you want most: the prophecy or the kingship”.

His friend looked sad, dejected even.

“If you are not truly focused on deposing your father then accept so and turn back now when you can. Either play this game or don’t. By keeping things midway, you are endangering many lives. Forget me and Arthur, what about the Queen? And your brother? ”

The strained tunes of the harp stopped. His words were true and their weight burdened his shoulders as the Prince stooped lower and squeezed his eyes shut.

_It is not as if I haven’t had these thoughts. But I have no answers, my friend._

He felt a hand on his shoulder after some time, and looked up to see two amethysts glinting at him.

“Sleep on it Your Highness. Morning might bring you wisdom. ”

“Have I fallen so far so fast in your eyes Arthur, that you are calling me with royal addresses?”A mirthless chuckle escaped him as he rose up to leave for his chambers.

“No, never. But right now, you do not need Arthur the friend, you need Arthur the Kingsguard and counsellor.”

Oswell clapped him on the back and flashed a grin, trying to cheer him up. It did not work. He retired to his bed, dreading what the morning would bring, dreading the decision he had to make, dreading his father. He had always thought that once he was old, there would be no scary monsters. How wrong he had been.


	2. The Golden Knight: The Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime boils (literally) while the King decides the bride for his heir.  
> Cersei will receive some unwelcome news later, but for now her twin steps into something he doesn't quite understand.

His ass itched.

A pity he couldn’t just reach and scratch to his heart’s content. He was bound up in his Kingsguard armour, which currently served as a metal pot in which he was stewing. He was used to it but the new Hand was clearly unprepared. Lickspittle Lord Merryweather was as drenched as if he had just stepped out of a bath. He kept trying to wipe his hands, brow and face with his robes but they were as wet as he was. It was _so amusing_ to see him write a letter while labouring to keep his sweat off the parchment. _The room was boiling and the Horn-of-plenty Lord looked like a turnip cooking slowly, growing red in the face very steadily._

The King seemed to be extremely pleased, perfectly comfortable; his dragon’s blood enjoying the heat which seemed to be straight from the Seven Hells. Jaime did not know the reason for his monarch’s happiness but knew that whatever made the King happy was sure to be terrible news for everyone else. He wasn’t privy to the conversation between the King and his Hand as he had been at his station, guarding the door to the King’s chamber with fellow Kingsguard Ser Jon Darry. Darry had dirty flaxen hair and looked like he never bathed. He smelled enough to make people certain of it. A sour faced man, he was mind-numbingly boring. But when the King called for him to come inside, his hands turned cold with fear. _Better bored than burnt._ Ever since his father resigned and left King’s Landing Jaime had been as skittish as an untrained pony in a battlefield. Every moment he was consumed by the worry that he might catch the Mad King’s fancy and would be tried in the place of his father. Each time the King called him, he began to think that it was time to be roasted.

But when fear came, he reminded himself of his father. _I’m a son of the Rock, a Lannister, a lion. Hear Me Roar. If you burn me Aerys, I won’t beg, I’ll roar._

Thankfully, there was no burning, not today.

The King had summoned him but didn’t say a word. Feeling desperate, with sweat trickling down his body every which way, _Jaime coughed_. A completely theatrical cough to break the silence. The _courtier’s cough_ , he had termed it and Cersei had laughed till tears spilled out of her wildfire eyes. They had seen many people use it at court and in Casterly Rock, to break the silence in an uneasy situation. It worked.  Merryweather jumped at the sound, caught unawares. The King jerked his eyes open to find the source of the cough and his panicky eyes met Jaime’s cat eyes.

“Yes you” he began without preamble, “call my son here. Tell him that I demand his presence. ”

“As you say Your Grace.”

He strode out like a breeze towards the Prince’s chambers, just a corridor ahead of the King’s. He knocked on the locked door and was greeted by Ser Whent.

“Ser Cub, come join us in a drink”. He grinned and shook the flagon of wine, beckoning him to come inside.

Jaime grinned despite himself. Even if King’s Landing had lost all colour when Cersei left its gates, it was hard not to smile at Ser Oswell. He had been more of an elder brother than he had ever been to Tyrion. The moniker _Ser Cub_ had been bestowed by Ser Lewyn, to mock his age. But Oswell had quickly appropriated it and used it with such affection that Jaime quite liked it.

Ser Arthur peeked out from the Prince’s ante-chambers and turned back to murmur his arrival. The Prince himself stepped out then, fastening his doublet.

“What is it Ser?”

“His Grace the King _dem-_ asks for your presence in his chambers, Your Highness.”

_“Asks for it or demands it?”_

Jaime knew he’d slipped, but this question made him go cold. The whole court knew of the mistrust between the King and his heir. As much as he admired the Prince, he hated being burnt. And hate is always stronger than love. The Prince however took note of the ebb of colour from his face and gave a wan smile.

“Don’t worry Ser Jaime. You don’t have to answer it.”

The Prince then turned to his companions.

“Let’s get this done with. Delay will not change anything, just make him more vicious. ”

The other two nodded. Rhaegar and Ser Arthur set off but Oswell stood still. Jaime meant to move but Oswell detained him.

“Drink this wine Cub. The Prince spooked you so, you look a corpse.”

_Mayhaps I am one. Or will be, in the near future. If Aerys doesn’t roast him, the jolt that his heart received every time he stood before the King will surely finish him. No matter. What is life without Cersei and fighting, anyway?_

Nevertheless he drank up. It was so strong that tears started swimming in his eyes.

“Looks like Ser Cub has not learnt to drink like a knight.” Oswell laughed heartily at his own jest.

“No matter brother. I will teach you how to savour the warmth of Dornish Red. ”

“I’d rather keep to Arbor Gold ”, Jaime muttered and Oswell dragged him out towards the King’s room still chuckling about his reaction to the spiced wine. Jaime said nary a word and neither did his sworn brother but he could see that between the smiles, Oswell was worried about the King’s summon. _He is probably going there so that he can hear the Prince and the King’s conversation._

They turned about the corridor to see Ser Arthur and Ser Darry standing guard. But before anything else could happen,a voice burst out from the room. A shrill, screeching voice.

**“HOW DARE YOU THINK OF DEFYING ME? I’M THE KING, BOY AND YOU WILL DO AS I SAY. IF YOU CANNOT FOLLOW MY ORDERS, I HAVE ANOTHER PRINCE TO TAKE YOUR PLACE. NEVER FORGET. NOW BEGONE FROM HERE. AND YOU WILL LEAVE AT FIRST LIGHT TOMORROW.”**

 Moments later the Prince burst forth from the room and Ser Arthur silently began walking after him. Oswell stood rooted to the spot and he seemed to be as spooked as Jaime had been some time ago. Rhaegar and Ser Arthur walked up to them, the latter clapping a hand on Oswell’s back who suddenly became perfectly alright as the Prince walked up to Jaime.

“Pack your belongings Ser.”

A cold hand grasped Jaime’s throat on hearing the Prince. What now? He stared at the Prince, trying to read his expression but found that as always, only sadness reigned.

“You too Oswell. We leave tomorrow, as early as possible.”

Jaime found his heartbeat again. The Prince had said we, and if Oswell was going there too.... it wasn’t what he was thinking of. He breathed easy. No imprisonments. But where were ‘we’ going?

“Where do we ride for, Your Highness?”

“Goldengrove, Ser. My father has decided to marry me to Lady Rowan.”

Oswell gasped audibly while Ser Arthur smirked, but Rhaegar himself remained sad as ever.

“Congratulations then, Your Highness.”

The Prince nodded wistfully and walked off, his shadow Ser Arthur ever behind him. Oswell followed as well but not before clapping his back and smiling.

Jaime went to his station and pleaded before Darry.

“Ser, I do not feel well. If you could relieve me for some time I could go see a maester. ”

Darry sneered, as he expected. “Why Cub? What ails you? Missing your Lord Father?”

Jaime did not rise to the bait and kept silent.

Darry caved in after some time and told him to be quick. He would be. Letter writing did not take much time.

He walked fast towards the Grand Maester’s chambers, eager to let Cersei know. Those were her parting words,mouthed in between his fervent kisses.

_“Tell me everything Jaime. Keep an eye on my silver prince for me”_

And he had done so. Kept eyes, ears, everything trained on the man. In the short time Cersei had been gone he had already sent out three ravens to Casterly Rock. There had been no replies but may be his Father hadn’t even reached home. While walking, nay running to the maester Jaime mused on how weird the Prince was.

All ladies including his sister made moon eyes at him but he couldn’t seem to care less. They made eyes at him too, but only when the Prince was not there. The announcement of his marriage seemed to have plunged the Prince further into his grief. Too weird by half, that man. And he always seemed to have Ser Arthur around. May be the Prince has queer tastes. Whatever the Sword of Morning might be, he was _Dornish_. _And the Kingsguard vows forbid relations with women, it never said anything about a man....._

He saw Pycelle and his thoughts broke off.

“I need to send a letter, Maester.”

“Very well Ser. To the rock, yes?”

“Yes. Tell them that the Prince is getting married. To a Rowan girl. I’m leaving with him for Goldengrove tomorrow.”

Jaime could see in his rheumy eyes exactly how _shocked_ the old man was, but he gathered himself swiftly.

“I’ll see it done Ser.”

Jaime sneaked out as unobtrusively as he’d entered. That eununch had informers everywhere. Pycelle could be trusted though. He was loyal to House Lannister through and through; Father had told him on his last night in King’s Landing. His thoughts went back to Cersei, Rhaegar and marriage.

When he returned to his position, Darry grimaced and spit out, “ The Prince was looking for you. Go meet him in his chambers.”

Jaime moved to obey swiftly but he couldn’t for the life of him think why Rhaegar was ‘looking’ for him. When he went to his chambers for the second time that morning, he was greeted by a tunic-clad Ser Arthur and a bare-chested Prince while Oswell shook a flagon of wine from a table merrily. He held his breath as he entered and Arthur moved behind him swiftly, to lock the door. Jaime thought _things couldn’t get weirder._


	3. The Silver Prince: The Plotting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get to know the bride! The prince plots some more. And there is lotsa' bromance between Arthur, Rhaegar and Oswell.

_This is going all wrong. If I bring a wife then her security would be a trouble, then the girl’s.. nay, my lady wife’s ability to bear children, her temperament....Why did Father even chose some lowly House’s lady? Why?......_

Arthur broke into his thoughts, locking the room, “You needn’t be so disappointed. You are just getting married. It’s not like the King knows everything.”

He dropped his voice a notch. “I have never felt fear like I felt it today, walking to his chambers. I was certain all three of us would soon become ash.”

“But this changes everything...” Rhaegar felt so despondent that for a minute he felt like riding to Summerhall with his harp and leaving all these worries behind.

“Don’t fantasize of running away to Summerhall. ” Oswell’s voice was sharp, biting but warm all the same.

“I wasn’t.” He could feel Arthur silently rebuking Oswell for being too harsh, who in turn made silent assertions of the other being too soft.

_“Liar.”_

He couldn’t help but smile. _Arthur would be his shield, his truest friend, everything; but he would never forget his crown. Oswell on the other hand would sell his crown if needed, to do right by him._

“I honestly don’t know what to do.” He was tired of being Prince

Purple eyes looked into his own, a strange mirror.

“Be a Prince, Your Highness.”

“I’m tired of it. So. Very.  Tired.”

“Everybody is, Rhaegar. Of your Father. Do something.” Arthur had never called the King by any other name, he mused.

Oswell jumped in. “What if you go to the Tyrells personally, in secret? Talk to them. Mace Tyrell is hungry for glory. Give him some. What is more glorious than a visiting Prince? ”

“But I will need an excuse. A visit from a Prince cannot be secret... ” but as he said these words something clicked.

Arthur began to say something but was shushed. Oswell grinned and Arthur joined in as well. They could see the light in his eyes. A plan was cooking. There would be orders soon.

Rhaegar picked up his harp and absently played the tunes of Jenny’s Song, all the while going through the plot in his mind.

It was time for action.

“Arthur, get me acolyte Hadnik. He is my man.”

Arthur nodded and moved. Oswell watched silently, ready for any bidding. It wasn’t the first time it had occurred to the Prince how much of an anti-thesis of each other his friends were. Arthur, with his fair hair and purple eyes, always honourable and dutiful, even as a boy. And Oswell, brown eyed and chestnut of hair, ready with a biting quip and an obscene joke, so mischievous. The Prince wondered where the years had gone. _Now he was to be married, yet he thought it was only yesterday that they were all 15; and Ser Barristan had dragged them back to the keep from some brothel on the orders of his Mother. It had all been Oswell’s plan and it had failed miserably._ He had never gone to any after that. A smile came out, unbidden.

“What is the smile for? Your new bride?” Oswell jested.

“No. I remembered our infamous brothel trip.” He started giggling like he never had in years, and Oswell joined him boisterously.

“Remember how red Athur was when the whore embraced him with her leg up his shoulder..... ”

“And when Ser Barristan came, he almost cried.”

“You were not much better. Good of me that I thought of going there.” Rhaegar sent him a glare.

“ Should help you with the wedding” his friend reasoned,  goading him to laugh. They both burst out laughing again and barely restrained themselves when Arthur came back with Hadnik.

Willing himself to stop the laughter, he turned to the acolyte.

“What do you know about the current Lord Rowan?”

“It is Mathis Rowan, Your Highness. He is 23, as of yet  unmarried. He has two younger brothers and a sister, who is the youngest child. Their mother died birthing her, she was a Blackwood I think. The father died four years after the mother. ”

“Anything else?”

“The the brothers are named Brynden and Baelor. I do not know the girl’s name. They are related to the Hightowers, their grandmother was one. Also, an aunt was married into House Merryweather. She died some years ago. Not much is known about them. The children lost their parents so early that the siblings are very reticent.”

The plot would stick, Rhaegar hoped. _Hightowers._

“Oswell, call Ser Jaime here.”

“Ser Jaime?” Both Arthur and Oswell spoke out together.

“Yes. Now.” Oswell scowled, he hated being kept out of the loop, but moved. Rhaegar turned his attention back to Hadnik.

“How old is Lady Rowan?”

“I cannot be sure Your Highness. Mayhaps four-and-ten. It is said that the girl is very ill.”

A sudden chill came in the room, as Arthur gasped.

“Ill? How so?” _She couldn’t be ill. He needed three children for the prophecy. Hell, he needed heirs for the realm._

“I do not know exactly, Your Highness but from what I’ve heard she hasn’t left her home ever except for a visit to Raventree Hall, one to Highgarden and one to Oldtown. She is also known to be very frail. I will need some time to correspond with people if you wish for more information, Your Highness.”

“There is no gossip about her?” Hadnik was an incurable gossip, which meant he knew many things generally unknown. _Unfortunately, they had the trouble of being spectacularly wrong at times._

“I did not think it wise to include it, My Prince. Gossip is often quite baseless.”

 But his eyes gave the lie to his words, they were almost feverish. The delight was quite apparent. There was a particularly succulent piece of gossip in the offing.

“Go on ahead anyway. I need to know.” This was the one good thing about him. A gossip he might be, but he never bothered to ask the reason behind the questions, howsoever weird they were.

“Of course, Your Highness. Well there was talk about the girl’s parentage because she looks like neither of her parents. Many probable fathers were mentioned, the past Lord Hand being one of them.” He paused significantly but Rhaegar did not break it.

The acolyte furthered on, “Then there is a lot of talk about how the girl is not proper because she never keeps any companions. She is the only highborn lady in the castle with no female to teach her of the uh, well... _womanly things_.”

Arthur turned beet-red at the acolyte’s words and turned to look away. Oswell, who had returned by then, whispering that Ser Jaime would come later; had his face split by a smile wider than the Trident, revelling in Arthur’s discomfort.

Swallowing a chuckle, he asked Hadnik, “No septa?”

“No Your Highness. If rumours are to be believed, the girl keeps her mother’s gods, the Old Gods. There were also rumours that the girl has a wasting disease. A maester I know from Oldtown told me he had examined her. While she did not have a wasting disease, it was something very troubling and never seen before. It’s said she is too feeble to even stand for long. People from Highgarden told me this. She does not even travel with her brothers, who journey a lot. ”

“She did go to some places you said?” Arthur was truly interested in his bride to be questioning so.

“Yes, but only for relatives. The Lord of Raventree Hall is her maternal uncle. Her family has strong relations with the Hightowers and Oldtown. And Lady Alerie is the girl’s cousin I think. Or a cousin once-removed. I will have to check it Your Highness.”

The acolyte had given him much to think about. “ Very well Hadnik. If I have any more need, I’ll send for you.”

“A pleasure to be of service, Your Highness.” He curtsied and left.

All this news didn’t bode well for him. He was to ride tomorrow to bring the girl here and all these rumours.....

“This is a bad marriage” Arthur proclaimed, struggling with his doublet. The wretched room had become too hot, even for him.  Rhaegar peeled off his doublet and tunic. Oswell seemed to be perfectly at ease, sipping hot spiced wine. The Gods only knew how he remained so.

“Why?” His brown eyes were raised in question.

Arthur was most indignant.

“Why, you ask? What about the fact that the girl is sick with Gods know what? What about the fact that she is still a child, just 14? And then those rumours about her parentage. Not to mention, her um... lack of... womanly education.....”

 _And just like that, all three of them started laughing like mad men, even dutiful, stoic Arthur who laughed less than the Prince who himself was famed to be melancholic_. Hiccupping himself to normalcy Arthur continued, still smiling, “The girl who marries Rhaegar will become queen someday. She needs to be a charming, graceful lady, not some frail, sick and uncouth girl.”

Rhaegar’s smile died. “Arthur has a point, Oswell.”

Oswell grinned in his all-knowing way. “You two know nothing. Let me explain. ” He rolled his eyes elaborately .

“The acolyte told you she keeps the Old Gods. I’m sure that half the rumours stem out of it. Riverlanders and Reachmen are very sensitive about matters of the Faith. I know it because I am one. As for her lack of” he nodded towards Arthur with a devilish grin “womanly education, the Queen can help her out. If she is a child, it is all the more better. You can mould her in whatever way you want.”

Seeing Rhaegar’s expression, he hastened on, “I know it doesn’t sound very nice, but you have no choice. You do need an heir, but it is not urgent. You can afford to wait. Even if there is a fight against the King”, all three of them shuddered involuntarily, “ you’ll have me and Arthur protecting you.”

“It is not like we can do anything.” Arthur sighed, but Oswell apparently had more to say.

“Now tell me why did you call Ser Cub here?”

Arthur did not know this as well, so nodded his assent to the question.

Rhaegar picked up his harp and started playing it gently.

“Well you were the one who gave me the idea of going to Highgarden. Hadnik told me Lady Rowan has family in Lady Tyrell, so I’ll tell my father I wish to get more information about her. But what will happen when Ser Jaime sees I talk not with her, but with her husband? We need to feed him something.”

“What?”

“That is where you come in. And Ser Jaime. We’ll go to Highgarden after picking up my betrothed from Goldengrove. There, I’ll say that I’m busy hunting with Lord Mace and the Rowans while you  and Ser Jaime will protect my to-be-wife as she spends time with her aunt, and then, ask subtle questions; gather information for me. After all it won’t be seemly if I ask about her.”

“Aye. That I can do. But I don’t think Jaime would even think that much.” Oswell seemed to be awfully fond of the young knight. He continued, “He’d report it though.”

“Report it? To whom? The King?”

Arthur was so naive in terms of courtly intrigue. Oswell was his opposite, better than Rhaegar himself.

“No Arthur, of course not. To his family. They haven’t been gone two weeks and the boy has sent out ravens galore. Don’t forget that my Prince.”

“I haven’t. That is why I will bring him out in the open. Feed him lies to report.  _I don't want the lions prowling_.”

“Ah! Lies and Arbor Gold. Brilliant.”

Arthur was still shaking his head. Obviously, he hadn’t understood. The other knight explained slowly, as if he was talking to a dimwit.

“The boy hero-worships the three of us, Arthur, most of all you. Now if he thinks he is being invited to join the big boys’ group, will he say no?”

There was a knock on the door. Oswell smirked. “I better bring out the wine.”

Arthur opened the door and Rhaegar stood up from where he was slumped on the floor. The Young Knight had a most peculiar expression as he ghosted in, eyes darting to and from the three of them. There was silence for a minute before Oswell started laughing without any cause.

“Drank too much Oswell?” Arthur remarked drily.

“No. But you two should look at yourselves. May be then you’ll understand why Ser Cub is discomfited so.” Oswell could barely speak, bursting as he was with laughter.

Rhaegar and Arthur looked at each other for some time before realising what Oswell had implied. A blush rose up Rhaegar’s cheeks while Arthur positively flamed. They had all heard the rumours floating around about both of them. They hastily grabbed their clothes off the floor while blurting out simultaneously.

_“It is not what you think!”_


	4. The Golden Knight : The Bride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime grapples with conflicting thoughts and meets a ghost.

They set off at dawn, trotting through empty streets. It seemed as if they were sneaking out like thieves. _And maybe that is the Prince’s plan, to keep the news of his marriage in wraps. Unfortunately, Casterly Rock already knows._

 There was a weird chill in the air, which spoke of rain ahead. It did not bode well for the long journey they had. For reasons he could not understand, they were not going through Highgarden but would return through it. It was stupidity; not going through the roseroad meant that they would take more than three weeks to reach Goldengrove. The Prince mentioned that Lady Rowan had relatives there; Gods only know how he knew it. _May haps he is planning to ingratiate himself with his new wife, taking her to meet her relatives_. With a jolt, Jaime realised that the new princess-to-be was of his age. A pang of pity rose up in him. The poor girl would be lost in the pit of vipers that the Red Keep was.

 The group travelling to fetch the bride was a motley one; three Kingsguard, one Prince, forty Goldcloaks and the half of the Lord Hand’s household. It was obvious who had prompted this match, the turnip-faced Lord Merryweather.

_Cersei would rip him apart with her claws if she hears of this._

The Prince’s summon had been for a discussion about the wedding plot, and the four of them had pieced various bits of information to arrive at this conclusion. The Hand was from the Reach, like the bride. His dead wife was a Rowan, so he was the bride-to-be’s good uncle. Jaime had seen him writing a letter before the King told the Prince about his impending marriage. Also, court gossip said he had been plotting for his niece to marry one of the Rowan brothers. May be this match was the price of that marriage. That the Horn of Plenty Lord was the likely culprit, was obvious. If the last rumour was true, it spoke much about Lord Rowan, who had negotiated a royal alliance to agree to a soiled marriage. It was well known that _Lady Merryweather was Merry Meg_ _come again_. She was quite old, and had served as a companion, or as the Dornish say, a _paramour_ , to many important men of the court including the King.

Having been convinced that the Prince was indeed interested in women, Jaime was surprised how sad the Prince still seemed about his marriage. _The convincing had been a story in itself. Jaime did not want to think about it. Queer Dornish customs still floated around in his head._

 During their travels, the Prince himself was serious as ever, looking worried. This troubled Jaime. _Have I displeased him in some way?_ Rhaegar didn’t seek him for counsel or discussion during the journey, but had told him in confidence about his suspicions of his new wife-to-be’s behaviour. He seemed to be plotting something, perhaps a way to get out of his impending marriage. Oswell as usual, had been unaffected and doled out a-quip-a-minute at everyone’s expense. Nobody was spared from his wit, which was quicker and sharper than his sword. Even Prince Rhaegar was not left alone as Oswell joked about his impending marriage and how his gift to his new bride would be a tome on Valyrian poetry. 

“Tell me I’m wrong, _Your Highness_ ”, he mocked, “Your bride will look expectantly, hoping to discover a necklace perhaps and then she will see the book.” He let out a snort of laughter. “If she actually manages to convince you that she is indeed happy with her gift, she might yet survive Court.”

Rhaegar could only smile sadly and shake his head in response to this; one day though, when Oswell was repeating this joke and the Prince had drunk quite a lot of the Dornish red, he suddenly quipped, “I’m giving her a crown, isn’t that a gift? And my heir. I say that should be enough for her.”

“Ah! The Prince has regained his bark. Dourness no more. I say, Your Highness, you should be drunk all the time. You make for much more pleasant company that way.”

But for every hour the Prince spent with them, he spent twice the time with one Ser Lucos Rihnce, a landed knight of the Reach in service of Lord Merryweather. Apparently, he had visited Goldengrove four years ago to win the hand of Lady Rowan. Ser Arthur was surprised.

“Wouldn’t she be too young for you? That too four years ago?”

“Ah Ser! While it is true that she was a child but then I’m not very old either. I was five and ten then, to her ten...”

The young man looked slightly ashamed, blushing as he had to mention his age. But to be fair to Ser Arthur he did look rather old. It was from then on that the Prince began interrogating Ser Lucos about his bride-to-be. Jaime often caught snippets of their conversation while walking through their camps and tents or while the men got together for drinking. Oswell japed that the Prince was obsessed with his wife even before meeting her.

One such night around three weeks into their travels, they sat around the campfire with skins of different sorts of wines, and Ser Rihnce related a tale from his time with the Rowan household.

“We went hunting; the two younger brothers, Brynden and something...I don’t remember his name, a couple of their retainers and Lady Rowan herself.”

“She went hunting?” Oswell was duly surprised and so was Jaime. Highborn ladies were rarely taken hunting. He remembered how it inflamed Cersei when he rode with Father and some visiting bannermen or any guest to hunt in the woods surrounding the Rock, while she had to stay at the keep and entertain the wives of the men.

“Yes she did. But not with any weapons, just to ride. But it was fortuitous that she did, because on a dirt track her youngest brother was thrown off by his pony. He broke his foot, but his sister managed to bind it well enough so that we could go on with the hunt. When we returned to the keep the master said that the fall was a nasty one and her ministrations had saved her brother’s leg. ”

“She seems smart”, the Prince commented. Jaime thought he was being rather miserly with words to describe Lady Rowan. Smart would be the least of what could be used for a girl of 10 who had saved her brother’s leg from amputation.

“Smart, extremely courteous and if I may say so Your Highness, a rare beauty”.

While the other two knights looked at Ser Lucon much more attentively on hearing this, the Prince’s handsome face folded into a frown and he stared at the fire for sometime before murmuring his apologies and begging retirement. The three Kingsguard made to follow but the Prince brushed them off and tied himself up inside his tent. Oswell and Ser Arthur looked very worried but followed Jaime to their own tents pitched adjacently. They bade farewell to each other and sleep stole Jaime immediately. He dreamt of hunts and chases and then of him chasing Cersei, failing and then crying; of golden light enveloping him then, and just like that his nightmare turned into a sweet dream. A melodious voice sang from the annals of his memory and lulled him into a deep dreamless sleep...

The next morning, he woke up to make water and chanced upon the Prince’s tent, where he saw Oswell and Arthur stretched beside Rhaegar himself; sleeping with nary a care. Ale skins littered the area around the tent and the three had arms draped around each other, a sleeping, silent testimony to comradeship and brotherhood, to their friendship. Jaime whirled out, an irrational spark of jealousy ignited deep in his belly. He had never known that deep a friendship. Addam was a friend, but he had barely spent two-three years with him. Even Tyrion did not really mean much to him. Sure he was a brother, his blood, but there had been no time to become his friend.

Notwithstanding the age difference, Jaime tried to be brotherly when he visited but then he had to contend with the spectre of his all-knowing father, even when he sat afar in King’s Landing. He could hardly forget the occasion when he had tried to help Tyrion ride a horse a couple of years ago, when he was squiring for Lord Crakehall and had visited the Rock. The boy was barely four and his height was an impediment but he had begged to be let on a pony. Jaime had acquiesced and tried to make sure nothing went wrong but his little brother had toppled out of the saddle. Three days later he received a raven from Father, ordering Jaime to stay away from the ‘grotesque’ as he termed Tyrion and not shame their House by making a spectacle in the yard. He had obeyed.

These thoughts kept his mind buzzing and roving all day; he rode farther ahead than the rest of the caravan, having taken the Prince’s leave to do so.

_That brotherly love works like kindling for my wildfire green jealousy._

Weren’t the Sworn Brothers of the Kingsguard supposed to be his brothers? Dour Darry, Old Ser Barristan, the perpetually grim Ser Lewyn, stern Ser Gerold and Oswell and Ser Arthur. While the latter two were the Prince’s, the rest of them were old enough to be his father. No. Companionship for him was only his sister, his sister living alone in the Rock. Their plans had come to naught, and here he would be stuck as a guard while his Father bartered Cersei away to some lordling. Rage flamed within him, rage at only the Gods knew what. Jealousy licked hot in his belly and his hand itched to kill, to hurt, to do what it did best. This trip couldn’t soon enough. _The Prince had everything, even Cersei’s heart,_ _a voice whispered in his ears_. At first Jaime wanted to thwart this betrothal and make Cersei the Princess. But now rage told him to leave it be. _Then she would be only mine._ He shook his head to clear in thoughts, but in vain.

For the rest of the journey, Jaime kept his distance from the rest of the travellers. He needed time and solitude to think about who he wanted to be: the loyal brother or the loyal knight.

_Who am I deceiving? There is no Loyal Knight, whatever I would do, it would be because I’m a jealous lover._

Also, he did not think he could be near the blazing warmth of the Prince’s friendships now, not when Cersei was so far away and probably utterly lost to him. No, not yet. _Cersei would find a way, she always did. And so will I. But does she want to find a way?_

Half a day from the keep, a party headed by Lord Rowan met them on a dirt track they had been following since Bitterbridge. Bent heads rose at the Prince’s command and introductions were done, with the youngest Rowan gaping at Ser Arthur, Oswell, Rhaegar and even him, although he was  older than Jaime. They rode faster after that and Lord Rowan and his youngest brother guided them expertly so as to reach the keep quickly, their horde straggling after weeks of dusty roads and bare, simple fare. All of them looked thrilled to have a featherbed waiting and Oswell voiced the thoughts of one and all,

“My arse seems to have taken the shape of a saddle. As much as I like riding, sitting on a cushioned chair would be so pleasant.”

Even the Prince agreed, and the Rowans laughed and Lord Mathis assured them of the hospitality that awaited them at Goldengrove.

“We have calculated that we’ll reach my keep by midday, Your Highness. I know you and yours are road weary, but my household has planned a lunch for all your company. After that, you can rest and ease out the pain of your journey. The grand feast has been left for dinner.”

The Prince frowned and Jaime noted that where other men would start quaking, afraid of angering the Crown Prince, Lord Mathis only smiled and said,

“Of course, if the order of the day is not to your pleasure my Prince, I would send off a messenger to my castellan at once.”

Rhaegar seemed to be lost in thought and recovered himself,

“Oh not at all, Lord Rowan. I was thinking of the sensibility of the plan. I quite like it.”

“I’m glad you do, Your Highness.”

Jaime could not bear any courtly twittering right now. He moved away, silently stewing in his thoughts.

They arrived at Goldengrove, greeted by the second Rowan brother and were guided to the feast. Surly they might think him as he said no words to anyone, but Jaime couldn’t care less. He had only his food and wine for company, duck and pig and Essosi sour wine. The Rowans did know good food, he accepted reluctantly. Now all he wanted was to take a warm bath, and then have a blessed sleep. As soon as it was civil he moved away from the trestle tables and beckoned a maid to ask for his room. She led him there, and he thanked the Seven that a warm bath was drawn already. A quick soak later, Jaime nestled into the impossibly soft bed and tired as he was, sleep stole him faster than the Stranger’s kiss. There were dreams, of a lullaby and an impossibly sweet voice, of perfumed and feather-light golden hair. And of hollow blackness.

He woke up to a pounding on the doors and bedraggled, still sleepy; his dreams lost, he rose to open it. A servant informed him that the feast had started already.

_Seven Hells, was it that late already?_

He dressed in his Lannister tunic and crimson breeches, his ceremonial armour and finally, his snow white cloak. Brushing his hair, he grabbed his sword with the other hand and dressed it safely in its scabbard. Checking his daggers in each of his boots, he set out with the servant, running late as he was. Oswell beckoned Jaime into his place on catching him trying to figure out his place to stand. He hurried up, his station was to the left of the Prince. Lady Rowan was kneeling in front ofher betrothed, who bade her stand. She lifted her head, and held out her for the Prince to kiss. Taking her arm, the Prince turned her towards Jaime saying.............

But Jaime could not hear what Rhaegar said. All he heard was an old lullaby,

_My lion of Lannister_

_The Lord who will rule the rock_

_Go to sleep, my golden cub_

_And have sweet golden dreams_

_May you be ever strong_

_Sheltered forever in the Rock....._

The eyes were the same, a calm green-blue Sunset Sea reflecting the golden light and the hair, so gold, so soft. He almost asked.

_Cersei?_

But no, the eyes were wrong. They were too calm, with none of that passionate wildfire colouring. He could see those eyes, looking at him, rocking him to sleep.

He heard her say with that old old voice,

“So this the youngest Kingsguard ever. I’ve heard much of your skills Ser Lannister.”

She extended a hand. _Was this ghost meaning to touch him_?

He stumbled backwards and then ran for his life, unbidden tears streaming down his face.

_Mother had said there were no ghosts, but what was he to do when Mother’s ghost came for him?_


	5. The Silver Prince: The Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar gets advice from his mother, and travels to Goldengrove. We meet the brothers Rowan and co. Its a filler between action.

After Ser Jaime had been taught the lines the Prince wanted him to parrot, Rhaegar had spent the day actually thinking about the reasons for the King’s decision. He was absolutely sure that Lord Hand Orton had nothing to do with the decision simply because he wasn’t that sort of a man. He was a flatterer, a yes man, not someone who would take a decision or champion an alliance. No. This sudden, futile and potentially damaging idea had all the hallmarks of springing out of his father’s decrepit mind. It was the why that was important to decipher. While one corner of his brain remained engaged thus, the rest of it worked on making preparations for the trip. And there were so many things to do.

First he had to write to the fat fool Lord Tyrell to inform him that he would visit. But before he could send the raven on its way he had an unpleasant conversation where he lied through his teeth to convince the King to let him visit Highgarden, spinning tales of possible deceit. He also wanted to take Mother with him, making an argument about how his betrothed would have no lady with her. It may have not been his actual intention, which was simply that of giving his dear mother some time away from the monstrosity that his father was but in hindsight, his argument made much sense. Of course his father did not agree. Then he wrangled and haggled with the King about the number of men he would take. He wanted to ask for Jon to join them but his father steadfastly refused, not wanting to leave him with those loyal to him. In the end the King forced him to accept every term in return for letting him go to Highgarden.

After that he selected the Gold Cloaks and retainers who would travel with him to bring his bride home. It still felt a bit....something he couldn’t quite place. He had always known that his marriage would be a political alliance and love would play no role. But to meet a girl and marry her within two months? He wasn’t ready for that. And that too, a mere child. He could see trying days ahead. He had made the food arrangements, cheese and beef and wine and spices. Then he arranged for servants who’d wash and cook and make their tents for them on the journey. All of it took the whole day, and he could just barely join his mother for a late supper who informed him that he had just missed his brother, who was waiting for him but unfortunately had fallen asleep.

_Poor Vis. Damn my wedding! I want to stay and play with my brother._

His mother looked at him, concern apparent in her eyes.

“I see that the news of your marriage brings you no joy. Why is it so?”

Rhaegar thought for a moment, not wanting to burden his mother with his misgivings. But before he knew, the words had spilled out of him.

“What if we don’t like each other Mother? What if she is not the kind of wife I want, the Queen I need by my side?”

The Queen took a deep breath before speaking.

“Then my dear, you will have to make the most out of an unhappy scenario. Be civil to one another and keep a happy marriage for appearance’ sake. Beget a few children to secure the succession and then manage to forge a friendship.”

“But what if I cannot? What if she is a conniving little sneak like Cersei Lannister? ” He had not admitted to himself how worried he was about it, burying it beneath work.

“In that case”, answered his mother “you will need to keep your wits about you at all times. Make sure she has no cause to give you grief. Be a good husband, not the cold crypt you become in front of strangers, make her yours through love and charm; a cunning person is better kept on your own side.”

They partook of the supper in silence, spiced beef and mushrooms, washed down with a much too sweet Arbor wine. Finally before taking his leave, he asked the question bubbling in his throat ever since he was informed of his marriage.

“How do I be a good husband, Mother?”

His mother laughed, her face lighting up and those gods-awful bruises receding somehow. She seemed to lose at least ten years at once, becoming the happy, beautiful Mother he had known whilst he was a child.

“Why Rhaegar. ‘Tis the easiest thing. Learn about your wife. Know her well, remember it all and use that knowledge when the time comes. But above all, be sympathetic and kind.”

The only thing that could be said for the journey to Goldengrove was that it wouldn’t extend for months. He had always hated travelling with such a huge tail, preferring to go with just Arthur, Oswell and Jon. They had gone to Summerhall, the Dornish Marches, Faircastle and even Maidenpool like that. He tried to spend his time reading, completing all the seven tomes he had brought with himself within a week. He’d need to restock himself from the library at Goldengrove or Highgarden. But for now, there was naught to do but hunt and talk to people. Ser Jaime always seemed to be hovering around him, a golden sheen at the edge of his eyes. It was so irritating, and Oswell teased him about it to no end but also came to his rescue, drawing the knight away. Rhaegar made certain of avoiding him, the beauty of the Reach and the Roseroad made him shirk away from the battle of intrigues he was waging against House Lannister.

It was Arthur who brought him some useful news. Apparently, a landed knight sworn to Lord Merryweather had been to Goldengrove four years ago to win the hand of his betrothed. Rhaegar recollected his mother’s words and decided that the best thing to do would be to get to know more about her.

He sought out Ser Lucos Rihnce from then onwards, asking him things about the family and about the girl herself. Unfortunately, he was an extreme disappointment. He knew almost nothing about Lady Rowan, not even her name. He praised her as extremely beautiful and very smart, but they just seemed to be empty gallantries. She was just 10 when he had met her so there was probably nothing much to know. The concern about his wife was a steady stab in his head, ever present. He got much to know about her brothers though. The eldest Lord Mathis was a cold-hearted person but a very efficient lord, ruling over his lands justly and maintaining the King’s peace at all costs. The middle brother Brynden was his elder brother’s sole confidant and was the actual source of the clear, logical decisions. Lady Rowan was most devoted to him, and he was a very conscientious brother, always doing little things for her happiness. The youngest, Baelor, was a sweet sort of child-man who was of a soft disposition with no striking features. It did not advance him in any way, not really. He wanted to know his wife and her supposed illness. Ser Rihnce had said nothing about it. His main worry apart from the illness was her age; she was too young, a child. How was he supposed to bed her? How capable was she of birthing a healthy child? Arthur and Oswell considered it the price of being a Prince but he couldn’t convince himself. He ended up making a list of women from history who had been wedded and bedded at a young age. _So much for keeping myself occupied!_ That was a quite a list but even then a girl who had seen just four-and-ten name days had been married only twice. He could choose not to bed her, but then his plans of deposition would have to be put on halt. And an unconsummated marriage always meant trouble. He could keep the information secret, but it would be hard to do so from Varys’ birds. There was also the mystery of the King’s choice of Lady Rowan as his princess. _His princess....._ His thoughts resulted in a massive headache which lasted days.

There were hunts to go on and scenes to see, but his mind was not at peace. All these intrigues, these plots and games were getting muddled in his head. _Who was I plotting against? Father or the Lannisters? Will they help me? Or will the pride be drunk and he’ll side with the King?_

He was not made for this. Being the second son would have suited him much more. With his love of books and knowledge and his admirable sword-fighting, he would have been a good Prince, not the Crown Prince. _The cup has been set before me and like it or not, I will have to drink from it. If I don’t, the realm will suffer being on the whims of my deranged father till Viserys comes of age._ Keeping his thoughts locked in his chest, he went out to join the Kingsguard and a few other knights drinking by a fire. Ser Lucos Rhince was there as well and seeing Rhaegar he began another story about Goldengrove. _I just wish I could make him stop with these stories, they tell me nothing about what sort of a person she is._ As politely as he could, he took his leave and scampered away to his tent. There are times when even battle-hardened knights cannot abide by the sight of blood and right now, Rhaegar could not stand to hear another false word of courtly flattery. 

He drew his tent tightly and tried to go to sleep, but his mind wouldn’t stop buzzing; much like the flies which were present around their camp in overwhelming numbers. He withdrew his harp tenderly from the depths of his trunk and began to play out a tune that he had been working on during the journey. Just before the crescendo the tent strings were tugged by someone so violently that the pavilion nearly collapsed. Abandoning the instrument, he rose and opened his tent. Arthur and Oswell lumbered in without a word, rolled out the down mattress and grabbed a pillow each. Before Rhaegar could ask, Oswell shushed him.

“ You are acting like a cold crypt, which means you are troubled. I know you do not wish to entertain us right now but we are not going to leave you alone. So don’t waste your time arguing, Your Highness, and go to sleep. ”

Arthur nodded his assent vigorously and said, “We’ll talk about your worries in the morning. Now complete that song you were playing. It was so sad.”

“I was just playing out a tune, without the words. ”

“Write a song for your bride. Women love your songs.” _Was it just his fancy or did he hear a smidgeon of jealousy in Oswell’s voice?_

“I might. But for now, we’ll sleep.”

Over the next week, the three of them often went hunting, giving Rhaegar adequate time to discuss his worries about the wife who would be his, the Queen who would be the realm’s and the plots he was hatching. Ser Jaime seemed to be rather put out, and sought his permission to ride ahead. Rhaegar was happy to give his consent, as the absence of the cub made it easier to talk, not needing to guard his tongue. Arthur thought it was useless to connive thus against House Lannister, but his mother agreed that Lord Tywin was not a man to be trusted. He had nothing to offer him, and therefore would never have his backing. But that was for later, as Arthur said.

“ You are here for your wife, Rhaegar. Forget the throne for now. Marry your princess and then think about making her a Queen. ”

Half a day from Goldengrove, a welcome party showed up headed by the young Lord Mathis Rowan. He had a stern face with hard, dark eyes and raven hair with the lines on his face making him seem much older than his actual twenty-five namedays. He bowed low and knelt until Rhaegar bid him to stand calling him as good-brother. The rituals of social behaviour followed, with greeting and blessings and hopes exchanged. Thankfully, Lord Rowan was not one for idle talking, immediately detailing out the plans for their stay, who would accompany them to Highgarden, if they’d require anything or not, he was every bit the gracious host. Taking advantage of this statement, Rhaegar cut in,

“I’m most certain we won’t have any cause for concern. But for now, what I would enjoy would be a library.”

“You’re in luck then, Your Grace. My grand parents were great readers and they enjoyed keeping many rare scrolls. We’ve always kept two maesters to maintain the huge library. Please feel free to help yourself to whatever you’d like.”

“Many thanks, Lord Mathis.”

He was also introduced to the youngest brother, Baelor, who was soft-spoken and became glossy-eyed at the sight of Arthur’s famed sword Dawn. But both the brothers maintained a curious silence on their sister, never mentioning her. Rhaegar wanted to ask something, many things actually, about her but didn’t. _Would it be unseemly? I may ask anything; I’m to be her husband, right? How do I start though?_

Tangled badly in the knot of his thoughts, he remained silent for the rest of the ride but could see Baelor gazing at Arthur, who seemed embarrassed with the attention and was being harassed for it by Oswell. At the gates of the castle met them the middle Rowan brother, Brynden. Like the other brothers, he was black of hair and eyes but there was a wariness set in his brows. His countenance was certainly more interesting than the other two, marking him a sharp, shrewd man. After biding everyone to rise, Rhaegar looked at his surroundings with interest. A simple, strong , well-fortified castle it was, with extremely high walls and brilliantly hidden guard towers. It had no embellishment of any sort of beauty but possessed a quaint charm of its own. He approved of it mentally.

“My Prince” called out Ser Brynden, shaking him out of his reverie, “ come to the lunch feast. If you are willing, I will show you around my home personally, later. But for now, you must have food.”

Acquiescing with his soon-to-be good brother, Rhaegar followed him to the cavernous Hall where he was to occupy the highest chair. But just before he entered the Hall, he sensed a movement. With quick reflexes, he turned his head towards a solitary, rather ramshackle looking tower and its third floor window. But all he caught was a golden blur. He shook his head, and reminded himself of food and books. There was his peace, short, but nonetheless his.


	6. The Dornish Bloom: The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet the third POV character and set the stage for her arrival at court.

Elia burrowed herself into a small corner of the huge chair that was Doran’s favourite. Prince Doran now, Ashara corrected herself. He may have been much older than Oberyn and Elia but he was no less a friend to her. To think of him as the ruling Prince was surprising, and highly unusual. She determined to ask Arthur through the next raven she’d send to King’s Landing. How did he manage to be a friend to a ruler?

“What bothers you Elia?”

“Nothing. Why would you say so?”

To say that the Princess enjoyed the breeze of the Water Gardens would be a gross understatement. She was mad for it. Her short trips to Sunspear were generally cut shorter, because she was missing the Gardens. If she was sick, the wind carried her ailment away. It cured all of her aches, of the body as well as those of her heart. So when Elia sat morose in the Gardens, there was something terribly wrong with her. Her beautiful bronze face was quivering, but she was a Martell through and through, not giving way to her hurt. Ashara’s heart flittered frantically.

“Tell me please. Elia, my dearest, did you not say I’m the sister you wanted?”

“Ashara, I am....”

She interrupted ruthlessly. “Don’t lie. Tell me so that I can rip out the guts of the person who dares to sadden you.”

“Oh you violent madwoman. Don’t say such horrible things. There is nothing which has made me sad. Nothing new.”

 _Ah!_ _So her hand has been rejected again? I wonder why Doran wishes for a northerner to marry her? It will be a son of Dorne who’ll appreciate her for the woman she is, not buy her to be a broodmare as those Northerners are wont to do._

“Okay. Don’t confide in me, be the stubborn spear you are.” Years of practice of plying Arthur and Ashryn with her tears had made her an expert and they sprang up from some hidden reservoir. 

She made a show of wiping them, and turned away from Elia, who immediately rose and held her close. “Will you tell me now?”, Ashara spoke, still fake-sobbing.

“There is nothing to say. Doran received a missive from King’s Landing. His Grace the King has recalled the marriage offer he made.” A dry sob racked her body and she tightened her hold on Ashara’s arm.

Her pretences forgotten, she draped her arm around Elia comfortingly, who leaned in and rested her head on the offered shoulder.

“The King is a known lunatic. And we’ve seen the Prince, haven’t we? Dressed up like some girl’s pony! Who wants to marry him anyway?”

A small, wan smile appeared on Elia’s face, her brown eyes shining with unshed tears and bubbling mirth all mixed up.

She decided to continue. “You don’t need to wait for Doran’s permission. We’ll get you married to some Essosi prince or a Qartheen merchant. Someone more handsome than the Dragon Prince.” She made a disparaging face. “ We’ll find a man who wants a woman, not a prince in need of a birthing sot. ”

“And why would I not need Doran’s permission? He is my Prince now, Ashara”, she teased.

“Oh he may be a Prince of Dorne but you, my dear, are his baby sister. He would never refuse you anything. Even the stars would be yours if you wish. Doran would make a plan and Oberyn would fulfil it for you.”

“Wouldn’t that be taking advantage of his love?”, Elia played the septa.

“If you have an advantage and yet don’t use it, you are an imbecile.”

“Such wise words, Ashara. You’d do well to heed to her advice, Elia”, Doran’s deep voice came from the pool edge. He moved towards them with a rare smile on his thoughtful face.

“How long have you been spying on our conversation, brother?”  questioned the Princess.

“Long enough to know that if something happened to me, you would be in Ashara’s capable hands.”

Her chin wobbled slightly; death was probably still fresh in her memory as she had lost her mother not four months past. But no tear fell down. _A true Martell through and through._

In a rare show of affection, Doran enveloped his little sister in a warm embrace; her stick-thin body lost behind his huge arms and thus they remained for many minutes. To give the siblings a private moment, Ashara took her leave. After their mother’s death Doran had no time to grieve, busy as he was in assuming the Princely duties. None of them dealt with it well. Elia had withdrawn into herself, Oberyn ran away to only the Gods know where and Doran buried himself in work. She had spent 16 years of her life in the Martell household, with Elia and Oberyn, and she knew how only the mere husks of those delightful people were visible now.

She went to her chambers, settling herself on a cushion, and began to brush her hair, which was her pride and joy. It was dark, a burnt brown, unlike Arthur’s fair, white-blond hair. As a child she had craved his hair, until both of them were sent to the Water Gardens. On meeting dear Elia with her brown hair, the tables turned and then Arthur began to want dark hair. Even after two- and- twenty namedays, they fought like cats on meeting each other and no one recognised somber, sweet Arthur when he argued and teased her like a spitfiring little cat.

A knock broke into her thoughts.

“Enter.”

“Is it you Oberyn?” she called out, but was disappointed as she turned to see an acolyte hovering near the door.

“What is it? A letter?”

“Yes my lady, from King’s Landing.”

Arthur. “So finally my brother remembers me. ” The man gave her the letter and left, and all alone sat Ashara as she opened it.

_“Dear sister,_

_I say dear because that is what our maester taught us. Fret not, I will definitely pull you by your hair when we see other next. I know that you must be angry for not receiving any letters for the past four moons, but I cannot do anything apart from begging for your mercy. I was with Prince Rhaegar on Dragonstone, and we had no birds there, trained for Dorne. After that, it has been extremely busy with all of us having to pack and travel. But I realise that I have not yet said what I actually wrote this letter for._

_By now Doran must have received the King’s missive recanting the marriage offer he made for Elia’s hand. I beg you not to blame the Prince. It was not Rhaegar’s choice. You have seen with your own two eyes how fond he was of Elia. But it does not give to talk of things past. His Grace the King has arranged for the marriage of the Crown Prince to Lady Rowan, a house of the Reach. And that is where we are travelling to. The Prince, Ser Jaime, Oswell and I, along with a caravan of other knights, are going to Goldengrove to fetch the new princess._

_The marriage date has been fixed as exactly two moons from the day I write this. We leave tomorrow and will aim to return at least two weeks before the wedding. I do not know if it is possible, though. While the Martell family will definitely receive an invitation, I am not sure Prince Doran or Princess Elia will come, given recent developments. But I do want you to see you sister, so if you can, please come to the wedding. Oswell says that if he doesn’t meet you finally on this occasion he will ride straight for Sunspear to meet you._

_This brings me to the second reason for which I am writing. You know how dear a friend the Prince Rhaegar is to me, and so for him, I beg you my dear sister, to consider something I know you will not like. Lady Rowan is a child-woman of four-and-ten and the Red Keep is a scary place for grown people, let alone children. Rhaegar is rather worried about her ability to manage everything here in Court, and I know if there is one thing you surpass everyone at, it’s managing. Please consider coming here as a lady-in-waiting to her. I have not said anything to him about this because I wanted to ask you beforehand and I’ll tell him if only you wish to do it. I know leaving Princess Elia is not something you will like. But I’ll be there, as a poor substitute if nothing else._

_Send your reply at Highgarden. We should reach there about two weeks after you will be reading this. I’ll be in debt if you agree to this, sister mine._

_I still miss Mother, and by association, you, unfortunately._

_Love,_

_Your brother,_

_Arthur.”_

Her fist slowly curled around the paper, crumpling it into a ball and she meant to throw it, but Elia interrupted, strolling into her rooms. Her eyes were rather red, the brother-sister discussion had turned teary it seemed but she looked peaceful.

“Another unwanted ode to your beauty, Lady Ashara? ”, she smirked.

Incensed, she bit out, “It’s from my ass of a brother.”

“And what did Arthur write to enrage you so?”

Her eyes travelled over Elia’s face, taking in the sweet brown eyes, the honey skin stretched taut over her skeleton and the grace that resided in her heart. Eyes watering at the thought of leaving her, Ashara croaked, “The dragon prince has found a child-whore for himself and Arthur wants me to play her mother.”

“Child-whore?”

“The Mad King has betrothed Rhaegar to some girl from the Reach.” With incandescent anger making her face glow red, she growled, “My brother wants me to play wet-nurse to her and make sure she survives court, all for his love for the idiotic prince.” Stopping for but a second, she raged on. “He wants me to serve a girl of four-and-ten, she who will be taking what was yours. And he wants me to leave you. The gall of Arthur! ” she fumed, “the dragons have made him their pet. He has forgotten us.”

Completely opposite to her reactions, Elia replied calmly, “Then you must surely go.”

That sentence felt like a slap. While Ashara had often threatened people with theatrical tears, she had never truly cried since she was six. _May be my tears were all spent when I cried for Mother to come back, she used to think._ But now, when her brother pled her to go to him and the Princess whom she loved more than her kin told her to leave, there was nothing to stop the torrent of tears.

_I’m still not wanted. Elia wishes me gone, like Ashryn and Father years ago. And Arthur calls me for duty, not love. I will never be wanted._

Elia swept her up in her arms, and Ashara bawled into her chest like a child for what seemed like eons. The Princess’ hands made soft, comforting circles on her back, giving her the strength to stop crying. Wiping her tears away with leaden hands, she squirmed out of Elia’s embrace.

“How soon do you want me gone, Your Highness?”

“Oh my dear. I do not want you gone at all.”

Ashara scoffed disbelievingly but Elia continued.  “If I could, I myself would go as a lady to the new princess. But I can’t, not with my rescinded marriage offer. The King may be mad and whimsical but you and I know well that Rhaegar is not his father. With him on the throne, relations can improve between Dorne and the other six kingdoms. And someone is needed there at court as an emissary. Doran has duties, I cannot go and Oberyn is ill-suited to such tasks”.

She moved closer and embraced Ashara once more.

“But you, dear Ashara, you can be the voice of Dorne. A lady has a lot of influence, not directly, but subtly. If she is a child, help her and you will have her friendship. Dorne will reap the benefits later, and make the Iron Throne pay for the insult to House Martell.”

It was then that Ashara saw her kind, loving Elia looking as fearsome as the Sun her sigil, for the first time.


	7. The Silver Prince : The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the Crown Prince meets his bride. A mystery is solved while another presents itself.

As courteous as the Rowan brothers and the rest of their guests were, the Hall was stifling. Perched atop a dais above others, Rhaegar felt lonely. Lord Mathis sat a little lower, along with his brothers and the rest of the Reach nobles. There were present Lords Ashford, Tarly, Caswell, Oakheart and Redwyne. Even the Grand Old Voice of Oldtown, Lord Leyton Hightower had come and would travel with them to the wedding, to see his grandniece’s marriage to the Crown Prince, as Lord Mathis had told him.

The food was nice, with pig and pheasant and quail and duck and even deer. The dishes were done up with excellent spices, and striking flavours, such as he had never known. Especially surprising was the duck, prepared with oranges. He had never heard of any meat cooked with fruit, and had never imagined it to taste so nice. The quail had a spice rub he could not identify and the deer meat was infused with smoke, charred slightly, making it all the more sweet. He had to know the cook. If possible he would take him to Kings’ Landing _. At least I might procure one benefit from this marriage._

“Lord Rowan”, he called his host. “While I imagined the hospitality of the bountiful Reach to be grand, I never expected such flavours and tastes. Would you be offended if I ask you for your cook to accompany me to the capital?”

Mathis Rowan smiled a thin smile, barely curling his lips.

“Of course not Your Highness, but these delectable dishes are not the brainchild of my cook. He has just followed orders. They are all Lady Rowan’s....creations”

He first thought, stupidly, that Lady Rowan referred to his wife and wondered why Lord Rowan didn’t smile. Rhaegar was about to ask for her presence, when he realised what the man actually meant and clamped his mouth shut. _Did he not like his sister dealing with dishes?_

“Does that displease you, Your Highness?” the youngest brother piped up.

He realised his silence had been misunderstood. “No. Not at all. I have been surprised, is all. I am lucky it seems”, he mumbled, trying to cover up and then dug into his food with great gusto.

From the corner of his eye he saw Lord Mathis say something to Baelor, who quaked, probably rebuking him for speaking out of turn. After all the courses had been served, a few lords came up to pay their respects to the Iron Throne. In place of Mace Tyrell, came Lord Garth Tyrell, his brother and informed him that his presence was eagerly awaited at Highgarden. After that came Lord Leyton Hightower.

With a loud laugh he approached him, “Gods be god, my darling Chickie is blessed to have found such a beautiful husband, one who might actually hold his own next to her.”

Rhaegar wanted to talk to Lord Leyton, as the Hightowers were an old and very rich family. Having them on his side would mean a lot of ease in deposing his father. But this was surely not how he imagined the conversation to start, and he could only manage an embarrassed smile.

“Don’t take my words otherwise, Your Grace”, the great lord boomed, “all I want is that my grandniece be happy.” Conspiratorially he whispered, “The poor girl hasn’t had much happiness in her life”, all the while glaring at Lord Mathis.

_What was that?_

But he had no time to dwell on it, as other knights and lords came smiling up to him with their sweet, smarmy words, wanting one thing or the other. It was torture which perhaps even Arthur and Oswell wouldn’t be able to save him from. Ser Brynden interrupted his train of thoughts.

“Your Highness, if it so please you, I would like to give a tour of our humble house and show you the library. I hope you are done with your lunch?”

“Ah yes! I would like seeing the library.”

They made their way out of the large hall, taking care to avoid the tables laden with food and wine and drunk, tired men. Arthur and Oswell made to come, but he thought they needed some rest and so told them to sleep. They spent the rest of the hour going through the keep. As Rhaegar had judged from the outside, it was a simply built but sturdy keep with an extremely high ceiling. There were stories which the knight narrated, family tales of ancestors long gone and memories of his childhood. This keep had been raised by the First Men and was then overrun by the Andals. He told the story of their sigil and their founder, a daughter of the legendary Garth Greenhand. Fascinating though those stories were, Rhaegar knew them already, from tomes of maesters long dead. But he didn’t have the heart to tell that to his amiable host who was very obviously proud of his lineage. He stopped in front of a wing to turn back abruptly.

“What lies in that wing, Ser Brynden?”

Tersely, the other replied. “My sister’s bedchambers.”

He was sure he had turned pink, and decided not to question anything more. Rowan also seemed to have lost all interest in conversation and silently led him to the library. It turned out to be the ramshackle tower he had seen before lunch.

“My many thanks, Ser Rowan.”

“It was but my duty, Your Highness. I must beg my leave ”, he said and left without another word.

Normally Rhaegar would have pondered over the behaviour of the two brothers, so unlike and yet rather jarring. He would’ve also paid attention to Ser Jaime and his recent peculiar behaviour.

However, as it stood, he could not think about any of these. It had been a month since he had spent some time in a library and he was particularly anxious about the dinner tonight. _Not only dishes will be served, but also my lady wife._ To stave off his nervousness and the fatigue of the road, he drew out a collection of poetry by Aerond II of Old Valyria. No one truly knew who he was, but his works were famous across Essos and even in Westeros, among linguists and scholars. They had survived the doom, and were found in Volantis. They were the most detailed scripts about life in the Old Freehold but were written in an older form of Valyrian which had Ghiscari mixed in. The copies thus, were said to never match the original. He was very surprised not only to see its copy at a household library, but also to find it well thumbed. _Perhaps beneath his scary countenance and half smiles, Lord Mathis is a romantic._

Time galloped past but the Prince paid no attention. Adequate candles were burning around him, such that he never realised night had fallen and it was time for the feast. Just when the noblest of all dragonlords had returned from Chroyane after a particularly tough plunder with thousands of slaves in his legion, he gets to know that his brother has stolen their sister away, leaving him with nothing but a broken heart; Oswell shook him from his reverie.

“Rhaegar, your betrothal feast starts in nary an hour. Do you want me to accept the hand of your bride in your stead?”

The magic of Aerond’s poetry was its realistic and engaging description, and after hours of being lost in the epic tale, Rhaegar had to blink and think for some moments before comprehending the Common Tongue.

“I...I.. was just reading..”

“Valyrian poetry? Is it so important that you would miss the feast? Get up and go dress. Seven hells, take a bath. You still haven’t washed the dust of travel off yourself.” Oswell seemed furious, for some reason.

“I planned to....but this book...”

Oswell interrupted rudely, “You are incapable of change. I am going to get the arrangements ready, just get your princely ass to your chamber and clean yourself.” After thundering thus he left, leaving a worried Arthur behind.

“What flea buzzes in Oswell’s ear?”

“I have no knowledge, Rhaegar. After you left the hall, he did too. I met him but twenty minutes ago and saw his foul temper then. When I asked about it, he nearly bit my head off.”

Seeing him worried, Arthur hurried on, “But you should think about what you have been doing.”

He jumped defensively. “What did I do?”

“ Exactly Rhaegar. You’ve done nothing. You are here to take the hand of the daughter of this castle and you sit here ensconced and hidden. This will not do. Talk to the lords, charm them.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “All of them will help you when the time comes.”

“Did Oswell say all this?”

“Yes he did. And now you must go and get ready for the feast. There is little time to be wasted.”

“ Get that book. I wish to take it with me. ”

Arthur nodded, picking it up, and left, probably to find the maester and get the book prepared for travel.

Rhaegar made way to the chambers he had been provided with, as shown by Ser Rowan. His bath was already drawn, and Rhaegar scrubbed himself well before soaking for sometime in the tub. The water was extremely hot, as he liked it, and it seemed to be taking his fatigue away. He coiled himself more snugly and rested for some time. A knock and he heard his man-servant Hugor swear loudly.

He was about to ask the reason, when Hugor himself came running.

“Yer Highness, we are running much late for the feast. You must dress.”

_Seven Hells! He was the Crown Prince, his was the whole of Westeros. Surely he could be late?_

But these were words of a young child who wouldn’t know better. Now, unfortunately, he did know.

And so he raised himself out of the tub with great reluctance. His stomach rumbled painfully, and bitter vomit rose up his throat. The fatigue of the journey was displaying its myriad symptoms.

“Call a maester, Hugor.”

“Is Yer Highness feeling ill health? I could do a massage to ward off the pains of journey. Me wife says me hands are the best in all of King’s....” but the Prince cut in, having heard Hugor’s wife many praises innumerable times.

“Of course Hugor, I doubt it not but ‘tis not my limbs that trouble me. A maester is what I need.”

_It would not do to throw up on my betrothed._

“As you say, Yer Highness”, murmured Hugor, and left.

His clothes had already been laid out, done up in his house colours of black and red. The tunic was red silk with black velvet trimmings at the edges and the buttons were chips of garnet on which was engraved the sigil of his house. Soft linen black breeches, as was customary for him, were tucked into the high black boots he wore, with the garnet dragons studded along its length. His black lambswool doublet was chased with red velvet and the three-headed dragon was embroidered on his heart. But the simplicity of his garments, relative to those from the Reach at least, was offset by his crown.

 He was not vain, but the Crown was not just another embellishment on his person. It was a reminder of his duty, of his royalness and it reflected on House Targaryen. Much too aware he was of the fact that after his father being the King he was, his bloodline needed someone to be from the mould of those past, like Daeron the Good, Jaeherys the Old and Aegon the Conqueror. And so, his princely crown was a silver circlet, on which resided a three-headed dragon of onyx and rubies. The circlet itself was lined at the edges with rare yellow sapphires cut so fine that the crown seemed to be on fire.

  _Fire and blood._ It was a cue for the nobles and smallfolk alike to keep in mind his dragonblood; to reassert his house name and words.

Fitted up and looking the part of the Crown Prince, Rhaegar was about to leave when a maester clad in white and gold arrived in his chambers.

He bowed low and rose when bid.

 “How may I serve you, Your Highness?”

“I do not feel so well, with an urge to vomit. I may perchance be running a fever. I would like for something to ease it and, a balm for my fatigued body. ”

The maester was more of a knight’s build and young besides, breaking all notions of maesters as bent, old, weak men.  The other nodded his head wisely, the various links of his chain clinking together. He wordlessly examined him, his eyes and throat and ears and chest.  

Satisfied with the examination, he said, “From what I see thus far, I think ‘tis nothing but fatigue which causes this. For the nausea, I can concoct a potion and a salve massaged well may offer relief from tiredness.” He cocked his head, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, before making up his mind. “Excuse me, while I go fetch them, Your Highness.”

Rhaegar nodded absently, thinking of yet another obstacle to the swift journey he wanted. Just as the maester turned to leave, his curiosity prodded him.

“What does that salve and potion comprise of?”

“The salve is of crushed menthol leaves, honey, rosewood powder and rock salt. The potion is of various herbs; mint, lavender leaves, marigold petals, ginger and orange rind, brewed together with watered Essosi sour wine.”

“A most unique potion it is, maester...?”

“Maester Gareth, Your Highness.”He fingered the heavy links, somewhat ill-at-ease suddenly, but said no more and waited to be dismissed.

“You may go. Have the potion delivered at the feast itself.”

“Hugor,” he hailed his servant, who showed up immediately.

“Tell them I am ready to meet my betrothed.”

Hugo left silently and arrived with in some moments with Ser Brynden, who promptly took a knee.

“Your Highness, my brother and the Lord of Goldengrove has bid me to escort you to your betrothal feast. I humbly ask you to come and accept my lady sister as your wife and your princess, if it pleases you and bind our houses by marriage in the eyes of the Seven.”

The ceremonial words over, Rhaegar walked up to him and raised him by his shoulders.

“It is a pleasure to be in your abode, Ser Brynden, and an even greater pleasure in joining our houses together with my marriage. ” In a lighter tone he jested, “good-brothers do not kneel, but ask the man to take care of their sister, at swordpoint.”

His soon to be good-brother’s black eyes glittered with amusement and something like approval, which Rhaegar was happy to see, even if it didn’t matter. He led the way towards the feasting hall once more, and they passed the library tower again. Ser Rowan chuckled on seeing his longing gaze towards that tower but he seemed happy, distinct from the rest of Westerosi men who japed about his love for books.

The huge High Hall had been decorated with rich tapestries, depicting scenes of the Reach, with the pride of the place being provided to Rowan Gold-Tree, the legendary daughter of Garth Greenhand who gave rise to House Rowan and planted a golden apple tree. Raised at the centre of the hall was the Targaryen banner in obeisance to his presence, and beside it was the white-gold apple tree of the Rowans. Servants were entering in hordes from various doors, to set the tables in order and fulfil the fancies of the honourable guests assembled for the feast.

_My betrothal feast. This is it.There is no going back now._

_Well, there might be; anything can spring from my father’s diseased mind. But that would be an even worse situation than the present one. It better not come to that. I must not panic._

He was led to the dais, where a belligerent Oswell stood guard, with Arthur beside him, who looked very flustered. Ser Cub was missing. Before he could ask, Oswell hissed,

“The idiot child is still not here, sleeping mayhaps. I have sent a maid to bid him here already. ”

Sweat beads dotted Rhaegar’s face, as he saw the whole hall kneel, and panic wrapped its long skeletal fingers around his throat. Arthur nudged him slightly and he took a long, rasping breath.

“Rise my lords and ladies. Your presence honours my betrothal and I’m glad for it.”

The guests clapped lustily, and everyone took a seat. A hush fell on the hall as Baelor Rowan walked in, along with his sister and his brother Lord Mathis. She walked, nay, glided silently between her brothers. Her head was tilted downwards, weighed down by her hair; piled up as it was like a pot of pure gold. His eyes travelled past her golden hair, and took in her slight figure. She was extremely thin, her fingers could be likened to bird’s claws and her intricate white-gold dress seemed to be bogging her down.

Before Rhaegar could process, a thought formed; _she would be better off without clothes_ , and it turned him red.

After she performed a curtsey and knelt before him, he moved ahead to raise her, that thin hand startlingly cold in his. She raised her head slowly, and the Prince felt his insides twist painfully.

_This marriage will be more difficult than I thought._

Oh she was beautiful and heart-breakingly so, but she was a child. Her face belied her age, she seemed to a child of ten, with her eyes downcast demurely. _Her eyes!_ The more he looked at her, the more he was unnerved by the similarity between his little lady wife-to-be and the dead Lady Lannister. They had the same eyes, same hair and same bone structure. It all became clear to him in a sudden flash and he had never hated the King like he hated him in this moment.

She murmured her thanks; _even her voice sounds like her, inasmuch I remember_ and he steered her towards the knight at his right, to test his theory.

“My lady, this is Ser Jaime Lannister, a most puissant warrior, hailed as the Young Lion.”

She looked up towards the knight with words of courtesy and bowed lightly, extending a hand for him to kiss. Ser Cub however, looked dazed. Staring for some time, he ran away with a speed befitting a lion.

_It is as I thought. I never thought my father would descend to such levels._

The hall went still as winter, with shock etched on each person’s features. He heard Oswell take off behind him. But what interested him was Lady Rowan’s expression. Or the lack of it. She was utterly calm, like a golden little porcelain doll, and she withdrew her hand quietly. Taking on the mantle of the Prince, he cleared his throat and the spell broke. He gently drew her towards Arthur, his palm spanning her width.

“This is the Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard and one of my truest friends.”

Her eyes glittered in recognition. There was no one who had not heard of Arthur and his chivalry and skill with the sword.

“An honour, my lady”, Arthur murmured, kissing her outstretched hand.

“The honour is mine, Ser Dayne.” Her voice was a sweet, soft chime, like the musical bells of Norvos.

Greetings done, he and his betrothed sat side-by-side on the highest dais.

“Assembled lords and ladies, I thank you for your presence here as I formally proclaim Lady Rowan as my betrothed. House Targaryen and I are overjoyed to make this union with the golden maiden of the Reach. If my soon to be goodbrother Lord Rowan agrees, the festivities may now begin.”

Platters of food came out in huge numbers, with the servers seemingly having four arms. And with them came the Lords and Ladies and the knights again, expressing their joy and exuberance at his marriage. Lady Rowan played the role of a princess very well, chiming out the appropriate words. But whenever Rhaegar tried to talk to her she gave monosyllabic replies, looking terrified of him.

Suddenly, a lady came and took a knee in front of him. She was wearing a black dress, and a dirk hung from the belt of her bodice. _Interesting._

“Your Grace, I bring the love, the loyalty and the blessings of the Old Gods from Raventree Hall. But...”

“Aly!”

“Why cousin, being a princess in an hour of your betrothal?” A smirk played upon Lady Blackwood’s face as she made Lady Rowan blush.

“As I was saying Your Highness before I was interrupted by your princess, all that I bring comes at a price.”

His betrothed spoke to him for the first time. “Your Highness, this is my maternal cousin, Lady Alysanne Blackwood. Pray excuse her”, she said as she glared at her, “she has the most unfortunate habit of speaking out of turn.”

“There is nothing to excuse my lady. Lady Blackwood’s words are refreshing, in contrast to the smarming of lords vying for my attention.” Turning to Lady Blackwood, he said, “And what is your price, my lady?”

“The happiness of my sister.”

“That is my concern as well, my lady. You have no need of fretting about it.”

“Words are wind, my Prince”, she seemed to be staring right into his heart. “But doubt me not when I say I’ll hold you to them.”

The dishes were again marvellous, even outdoing the lunch by far, and when Rhaegar tried to talk to her about food, she murmured a few words before walling up again. When the dancing began, he led her to the floor as musicians struck up My Lady Wife. She was a glorious dancer, little thing that she was, with her feet skimming the floor. When he lifted her up for the final flourish, her weight gave him a shock. She felt lighter than Viserys, a bundle of cloth and bones. After the ceremonial dance was over, her brothers led her in a dance each, along with other lords of the reach. He danced with Lady Ashford, who after Lady Rowan, felt like a lot of work, and Ladies Bulwer and Webber. When he spied Oswell walking into the hall from a side door along with Ser Cub, he excused himself from the next song and walked up to them.

Before anyone said anything the young knight croaked out, “You were wrong, Your Highness. The King did this because he wants my mother back near. Lady Rowan will not be your wife, but his pleasure slave.”

For all his bravado, Jaime seemed like any other child with his hair askew, eyes rimmed red and armour of pride knocked off. Oswell shushed him, but Rhaegar knew it was true.

“You are right, Jaime, and we must needs protect her there.” He paused, feeling a stab of guilt for manipulating the child against his family by using his dead mother.

“She does look like Lady Joanna, and it’s fitting if you be her sworn shield. Someone needs to save her from my father. But mention this to no one. This can be used against us.”

He clumsily wiped his eyes, and nodded his assent.

“Take as much time you need, but do join the feast”, clapping his shoulder, “and be well.”

As he and Oswell made steps towards the dais, the knight murmured with a smirk, “Played him like a harp, Your Highness.”

“Time will tell if my tunes were right or no, Oswell.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story is also available at www.theeditingstartup.in.


End file.
